For The Woman Who Has Lost Her Way

David Cassidy's last words before he passed away were: "so much time wasted." I sat and sobbed as I read that over and over. 

How poignant a statement. How much time do we waste each year? Each month? Each week? Each day? Being mad, being hurt, being scared, being sad, being beat down. What a wast.

If you are like me, if you have sat in this solitude for any length of time, you know it's the loneliest place to be: without direction or purpose. Maybe, like me, you have lost friends. Maybe you don't know where to turn and how to pull yourself out of this despair. If you're like me, you got to rock bottom: you no longer wanted to exist. Maybe you're there now.

I shared snippets with a friend today of my past year and my failures. I did a lot of things wrong. A lot. I was lost, confused, hurting, broken. But do you know? I wouldn't change it. I couldn't be here, writing a beauty for ashes story, speaking life over the hurting and the lost if hadn't been there. Nothing with God is wasted - He is using it. His call on my life is for you - the lost women. The hurting women. The sad women. He wants YOU back. He wants YOU to be whole. He wants YOU to find Him in the battles and the trials. 

What man of you, having a hundred sheep, if he has lost one of them, does not leave the ninety-nine in the open country, and go after the one that is lost, until he finds it? And when he has found it, he lays it on his shoulders, rejoicing. -Luke 15:4-5

If you are lost right now, God is a breath away. Stop. Tell Him how you feel. Tell Him you're scared. Tell Him you're lost. Tell Him you don't know what to do. Ask Him to fill the void.

Now, open your Bible and start reading.

John 3:16

Matthew 26:27-28

1 Peter 2:9

Psalm 119:105

Ephesians 6:10-18

Romans 8:26-27

1 John 4:4

Psalm 121

Psalm 8:1-3

Romans 8:28

These are truths to cling to each day. When you feel lost, pull these out and let God fill you.

Thank you for sharing your stories, your struggles, your hearts. The messages pouring in make me cry, laugh, grieve, and everything in between. You are not alone - we all go through the desert sometimes.

For the Son of Man came to seek and to save the lost. -Luke 19:10

Get Over It

If I see one more post about not believing everything you see on social media, I am going to stab my eyeballs out.

If you are offended by pretty pictures of 1. pretty people, 2. pretty food, 3. pretty vacations, 4. pretty hats, 5. pretty children, 6. anything pretty that you don't have, then get off the internet.

 If you're offended by cake, just don't even try to be my friend. We're over.

Yes, we all do it. Perfect setting, perfect lighting, just the right angle, hip pop, snap, filter, sappy caption, post. Pretty pictures a villain does not make. So, get over it.

Let's back up. I have received messages about how my house is always clean, my children are so beautiful, my hair is amazing. Let me be the first to dispel this outright lie. If there is a picture of my house, it's usually my in-law's house when we're at the pool. My children can look beautiful; they can also look like creatures from the black lagoon. If there is a picture on social media of my hair, it is because I have actually taken the time to dislodge it from the permanent grease bun on top of my head, wash it, and curl it. Get over it.

Now, when I see posts like that or a recent influx of posts about not believing "everything you see on social media," I, literally, want to vom. Do you know how bitchy that makes you sound? Get over it. Some people see life through rose-colored glasses. I'm sorry you don't. Get over it. Some people wake up "sunny-side up," like my dumb sister would say every dumb morning when she dumb woke up. I'm sorry you are a cranky bitch. Get over it. Some people are photographers who are insane about perfect lighting, angles, edit, and emotion. I'm sorry you are aren't. Get over it. Some people are supes fashionable and like to show it off. I'm sorry you rock mom jeans. Get over it.

Get the freaking freak over it, people. If you're that bothered by it, ask Jesus to help you stop being such a butthole. Take your own pretty pictures of your pretty hair, and your pretty kids, and get over it.

/endrant

a.

Nicholas Sparks is an SOB

First of all, you should know that I am typing this with my middle fingers, through a keyboard soaked in tears. Why women do this to themselves, evades me.

Some stupid Target clerk suggested I watch this sob fest. She, clearly, hated me.

What I just sat through in the last 2 hours will haunt me forever. Nicholas Sparks is just like Stephen King, but in a very different way. Stephen King is one scary SOB. The things that his twisted brain come up with are just mental. Mr. Sparks is the same way when it comes to love. He, apparently, had his heart physically ripped out of his chest by the great love of his life, and then was made to watch as she rode off into the sunset with an uglier, richer man.

I know the score with Mr. Sparks. I'm not stupid. I have read the books. I finally stopped reading the books a few years back when it became apparent that I was a masochist. I would lay in bed, sobbing uncontrollably for hours at a time after being forced into falling in love with whatever couple it happened to be this month, only to watch as one of them dies a horrific, effing death while the other becomes a shell of a person.

His newest "hit" has only further depressed me, and for that, I would like him to reimburse me for the therapy that I will be needing. "The Best of Me." Nice, happy title, right? NO. The following text messages show you the roller coaster of emotions Mr. Sparks has subjected me to:

As in all great love stories, we encounter child abuse, childhood cancer, oh, and DEATH, the death of another loved one, the separation of true love, parents trying to break kids up, alcoholism, more child abuse, followed by vengeance, followed by best friends being shot to death on accident, a prison stint, car accidents, fathers murdering their sons, children needing heart transplants, more death and divorce. I mean, if this is what Mr. Sparks believes love is, he is one effed up SOB.

My heart now lays on the floor, being ripped out of my chest, spat on and stomped on. With that, I have one question for Mr. Sparks: who hurt you?

Permanently emotionally scarred,

#momsoftarget

JRo doesn't get it. "What is it about that store that is so amazing?"

Listen, my life consists of wiping asses that are not my own, living in constant fear that one or more of my offspring is going to kill him or herself, sniffing around all day in search of  "whatever the hell that smell is," and hiding the fact that my hair is so greasy I could cook with it.

Target doesn't judge. Target understands. All in one beautiful store there are so many beautiful, shiny things to look at. The popcorn smell greeting you as soon as you enter has a nostalgic feel to it. Just a few steps in is a pretty, green lady promising caffeine for just $12 a cup. With Starbucks in hand, popcorn in your cart, it's time for the $1 spot. How do they know how badly we need a miniature terra cotta pot AND a 2-pack of clipboards? I need a pot for the seedlings I got last week in the $1 spot and I may need to clip some shit to a board. They get me. 

If you are one of the fortunate moms to enter Target alone, you are inevitably taking a selfie to document this vacation. 

Some are not as fortunate as you. You know her well. You have been her. She is dressed in something other than yoga pants, her hair & make-up are done, and she's not going to waste that on WalMart. It's 20 below out, but she's sweating when she hits the door. You see her bribing her children with popcorn or a cake pop, as she wipes sweat from her forehead, holding a screaming baby and negotiating with a condescending 6-year-old. You smile at her, offering your condolences that she is dealing with her minions in her holy place. You turn, sip your $12 coffee & smile to yourself, thanking all that is holy that your spawns are at home.

Thank God Target carries beer.

In just 3 short hours, you have bought dog food, a new blender, some chairs for your living room, more yoga pants, probably some shoes, diapers, your groceries, a new necklace, some batteries, a bra that doesn't look like something the cat puked up, a toothbrush, tampons, a new tv, and boxed wine if you are in any of the other 49 states that doesn't participate in prohibition (thanks, Colorado). In peace & quiet. Sipping Starbucks. Alone. 

What's so special about Target, you ask? Everything. Everything is so special about Target. 

If you're a #momoftarget, Instagram your selfie or your maniacs with the hashtag #momsoftarget! Happy Target-ing!

Groundhog Day

Stay-at-home moms get a bad rap. Yes, we stay in our yoga pants all day, but this is not a choice. It is by default. I try to look like a girl more often than not as the boys have gotten a little older, but I will admit that most days I'm rocking the mom bun, yoga pants, & I'm free-boobin' it.

If you have ever wondered what it is like to have twins & a toddler, have ever desired to have this combination or happen to fall into this scenario, allow me to enlighten you to how things run around here.

Somewhere between 6:00 & 6:30am: boys wake up to nurse. I am, usually, deep into a creepy dream about an ex-boyfriend and drooling on my pillow, but I stumble in, grab the boys & nurse as I fight sleep. Boys go back down.

7:00am: In a hushed whisper, as close to my face as humanly possible, "MOM! MAMA! CAN YOU TURN ON A CARTOON FOR ME?"

Turn on cartoon. Back to bed.

8:00am: "MOM! MY CARTOON IS OVER. CAN I WATCH SOMETHING ELSE? AND I'M ALMOST STARVING. CAN I HAVE SOME CEREAL?"

Cereal, cartoon. Back to bed.

9:00am: Boys wake up. Nurse.

9:01am: Insert Chai tea IV.

The morning is a blur as walkers are whizzing around the room, Maddie is, as per usual, lining up her toys and yes. You guessed it. In her underwear.

9:30am: Feed the boys vomit cereal breakfast.

10:00am: Pile into the big bed for cuddling, talking, phone games, and to annoy the bejeezus out of the parents.

10:05am: I'm over it. Emails. Boys are fussing by now. Naptime.

11:00am: Boys are awake. Time to take photos of the boys in their swag for the blog. 

- Set up the room. 

- Dress the boys.

- Get Maddie to jump around like an idiot to make them smile.

- Lose my shit because Jax is trying to roll off the bed & kill himself, Jett is sucking on his shirt, his shoes or his fingers, and Maddie is screaming at the top of her lungs.

- Manage to get ONE shot. Post it. 

- Pretend like life is picturesque.

- Dry my pits that are now dripping sweat.

Her Tiny Tribe                                                                   Made by Molly

 Made by Molly                                                               Riley Clay Designs

 guguberry

12:00pm: Lunch. The boys get bottles, Maddie wants "sprinkle cheese and 5 pieces of apple." Ugh. Fine. Eat whatever you want.

12:30pm: Boys back down. Threaten Maddie with naptime if she doesn't hurry up & finish her damn food.

1:00pm: Silence. 

2:00pm: Once I have reached the end of Pinterest, Instagram & Facebook, work my fat ass out. 

2:45pm: Shower. Look like a girl again. Take a selfie to prove that I got dressed. And because #narcissism.

3:30pm: They are awake. Snacks. Cartoons. More chaos in the living room.

This happened. Texted Maren, begging her to tell me that it was ok that the kids were driving me crazy, so I hid in the pantry, dipping my carrots in Nutella. She assures me this is normal.

4:00pm: Operation: get these kids out of my house, unless it's spring thru fall & then I'm FREEEEEE. Working, but FREEEEEE.

Kids vs. no kids. Either way, there's always Starbucks.

- Kids: hoofing it through Centerra, sweating & swearing under my breath that I will never ever take these monsters angels out in public by myself again.

And the comments.
"Oh my! You have your hands full."
"You aren't having more, are you?"
"Bless your heart. You must be exhausted."
"Are they twins?" "No, I stole one."

- Working: jumping around, making fart sounds to make other people's kids laugh. 

5:30pm: In the door. Pants off, bra off, hair up. Dinner.

6:00pm: Bath.

6:30pm: Nap. 'Toons for Maddie. Emails, editing, cleaning.

7:00pm: Bath for Mama. Really, this is just me laying in the bath, Instagramming.

8:00pm: Editing, emailing, rewashing the laundry I put in that morning.

9:00pm: Maddie is down for the night. Friends marathon for Mama.

10:30pm: Bottles for the boys. Adult time. And by adult time, I mean, we both lay next to each other on our phones while Parks & Rec plays on the TV. 

11:00pm: Pillow over my face, drooling.

6:00am: Wake up, repeat.

Most days I think, "What the hell was I thinking?" But then, this:

And I'm like, "You guys are so lucky you're cute."

Happy Thursday, moms. We're all having the same day. Go hide in your pantry & spoon some Nutella into your mouth. We've all done it. No judgment. Just solidarity.